This Is What Irony Looks Like
by mebh
Summary: During the height of the Ishvallan conflict, Roy Mustang is wounded in a skirmish. hurt!roy
1. Chapter 1

For Antigone Rex. She wanted something else entirely, and I'm giving her this: my only first anime fic.

No beta, so let me know about any errors if you can. Writing this on the fly *i.e. avoiding HDWL like the plague*

Antigone... eh... sorry.

Part 1 of a few.

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"I swear to God- one shot, and his arm plain popped out of the socket. It was still moving, guys – it was! Floppin' around like a fucking catfish."

"They don't rot like our guys, fella. They don't. They sort of... disintegrate. Those fuckers are made of sand."

"These desert honeys have the weirdest fucking tits I've ever seen."

That was the banter on the way back from the field. These were boys talking in the adrenalin come-down of a thick engagement. So thick that enemy soldiers had gotten close enough to take bites. Mustang had found two bodies locked onto each other, frozen in their final warring moments. From even three feet away, it looked like they were lovers. That's how close it got at times.

The small platoon were bundled into four rickety old jeeps that bumped and sputtered their way way back across the barely traversable terrain. It was a shock to everyone in the detachment, this mode of transport. Usually the alchemists rode in style. Mustang must have done something to piss someone off.

"No style today, hey major?" said Corporal Connolly, the boy who claimed to have killed twenty Ishvallans on his first operation. Maybe he did, but tens of numbers didn't mean much to anybody these days.

Mustang glanced up from his report. He didn't mind the interruption so much. After all, he'd just spent the last five minutes or so drawing the same circle over and over again. A nice big one in red. In the middle there was a figure: 157. Their kills for the day.

He was fairly certain he'd planned a witty reply, but all that bubbled up was a very weak smile. The Corporal understood and didn't say another word. Everyday, it seemed Mustang's reception amongst the other officers was becoming more and more complex, contradictory even. He was loved, in a manner, but God- he was hated something special too. Someone obviously wanted to put him in his place; not that the young major was in any particular rush to be the Golden Boy.

The jeeps continued for a further rough and bumpy twenty minutes, the same coarse banter filling the otherwise silent desert. At last, they reached a small bluff at the edge of the Safe Zone. The forward most vehicle stopped. Bringing up the rear, it took a while for Mustang's vehicle to catch up to the others.

"What-?" the alchemist began, but was cut short by the first whistle of mortar fire. It fell wide of them by a good ten feet; one of the benefits of fighting an enemy unaccustomed to the heavier stuff. "Go! Move!" he shouted to his driver, while waving his hand madly at his communications man to issue the order to the other jeeps. The first jeep's tires spun in their place before it shot off and disappeared over the crest of the hill. The men around him were stumbling into position, rifles cocked over the battered and scored metal of the jeep's doors. A bullet struck the spare tire on the back of the vehicle with a 'pop!' More whizzed over head, red-hot seekers streaking the blue sky like lost comets.

The hinterlands surrounding the SZ always carried a little drama. There were mines and there were commando units; there were totally un-policed guerillas and there was a network of tunnels that stretched for miles upon miles beneath them. Yes, Amestris outgunned Ishval, but it was hard to beat an enemy in their own back yard.

A rain of bullets pinged off the side of the backward jeeps and had every man ducking his head for cover. The vehicle in front of them lost control and swung off the track and onto full desert. A couple of rear gunners tumbled out and landed heavily on the sand. Bullets now fell on them from both sides of the road and the smaller of the two thrown men got caught between the eyes. A good shot. He didn't like it, but Mustang thought of _her_ in that moment. He imagined some dark equivalent with red eyes, lying in wait – perhaps for him. Fuck Riza Hawkeye, was his second thought. His lover-ghost, his fierce-dependent.

The dead soldier's comrade rushed to him, hoisted him on his shoulders in one heave and was cut down a second later- by the knees then by the chest. Cartilage flew and the unit's times-squared dead lay still. Mustang cursed and scanned the desert for the gunners. Under the glare of the sun, Ishvallan tunnel hatches and rough linen uniforms were nearly impossible to spot. If he could get a lock on a hatch he could cook them inside their rabbit warrens- it wasn't hard for him. Lord, he could make a soup out of an entire battalion in a small space like that.

His jeep hit a huge rock and bounced impressively in place. It sent him tumbling backwards into his driver, and that's when he saw it: the long, black cylinder of an RPG launcher. He scrambled to his feet, knocking his head off the vehicle's decoratively tiny and near-useless fire extinguisher, and tried to recapture the location. It didn't take long. A thing like that, so unlike the desert yellows and blues, stood out like a flag. He raised his hand and snapped.

"Major!" Kelsey screamed a too-late warning.

The uncanny ribbon of fire spiralled up and came undone as twin bullets struck the alchemist on the thigh. Another caught him higher up, on the inside. That one put him on the floor of the jeep. _No no no no no no no no_, his mind raced and his left hand hurried to check for damage. What felt like a tidal wave of blood spilled down his leg and into his too loose boot. But he was an officer. He was the commander of this merry little, beat-up gang of grunts and, well, his cock had to wait. He staggered to his feet, gripping the edge of the jeep with his bloodied left hand and snapped again. He was spot on. The grenade exploded in the barrel and a black cloud rolled up from the mid-horizon. As the jeeps sped on towards the Safe Zone, his men continued returning fire, taking only one more loss. Not much for the day: ten in total, including their mission.

Mustang hissed and finally bent at the waist to check the damage: two punctures a few inches above the knee and the other just South of his penis. He rolled his eyes back and thanked _somebody_. Hearing laughter, he forced them open again.

Tomkinson was smiling at him- his mouth was, that is. In contrast, his eyes looked terrified... looked a million years old (looked like every other soldier in that hell).

"Fuck, sir," he laughed. "I thought they'd straight-up shot your baby maker away!"

Speeding past the towers at the edge of the SZ, Mustang sat back to let the medic get to work on his leg. It wasn't bad, not by an alchemist's standards. No major arteries had been hit and if there were any complications, every single grunt in the whole Mission knew there were different ways and means for alchemists than for them. Dark ways... secret ways, and always that weird-ass Dr. Marcoh.

Mustang smiled. "Me too," he said, and glanced down at his exposed leg and the deeply bubbling wound. He laughed then too. First a little puff of air with barely any noise behind it. Then he really got going. He laughed until tears started coming, from him and his men. No-one would have bet a penny on what was going to happen next.

The road was hardly better inside the SZ and the jeeps continued to jolt and bounce. Connolly, leaning forward on his rifle and laughing – insanely, tragically laughing – was sure his safety was on. He was as scrupulous as they came, and his safety was always fucking on. But that old adrenalin got the better of everyone sooner or later, and sometimes after a fight you were too busy pulling your briefs back out of your ass to remember the basics. The jeep hit a rock, Connolly's rifle fired and the lone bullet struck the fire extinguisher.

This is what irony looks like:

Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, screaming as he tries to scoop foaming, white phosphate from his eyes.

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Inspired by an old old episode of a Vietnam War TV show.

Review if you can. I'm lonely up in hurr.


	2. Chapter 2

For Antigone Rex, even though it is the antithesis of what she requested.

Trying to keep things real(ish) folks. So apologies for coarseness.

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Evening in the desert: the plummeting temperature, the rocketing fear, the red horror of the setting sun. With the disappearance of daylight, the boys climbed out of their man-suits and waited for death. In the sun, they were king. In the sun, they could see the flak jackets and helmets of their comrades read: 'Ain't no hell like the hell I bring'; 'Worst motherfucker in the 31st', 'I fucked Jenny Jonson'. In the sun, they knew where to point their rifles- their personal hurt bringers.

Nighttime was the Ishvallans' domain. Nighttime was guerillas spilling out from tunnels dug into the middle of a dorm. Nighttime was Ishvallan boldness: red-eyed soldiers rushing against towers as if they had one-hundred times the manpower. Nighttime was boy-sentries with slit throats, poisoned water supplies and control-devices strapped to the backs of kidnapped dogs, eager to return to their masters. Nighttime in Ishval was every terror every little boy or girl had ever dreamed of.

And here she was: the good doctor, peeling ruined gloves from her hands for the hundredth time that day. It started with the sergeant from East City finally going on her. She'd liked the kid: a girl who'd enlisted because she was the last of her sisters and didn't want to work in the factories like the rest of them. From there, there was any number of walking wounded, a couple of boys cut up good from a road mine and a throat wound, though not one of the nasty ones. With throat wounds, you could never tell. She closed her eyes a moment before thrusting her hands under the tap. She started pumping the water vigorously with her right foot. Last throat wound- a father of twenty-something - she'd been forced to triage, certain that he was beyond saving. She couldn't even be sure he was clinically dead when they put him in the body bag. There were just _so _many... so many priorities. All of them: priorities. Halmon was a real war-comic meat grinder.

Then came the alchemists and salvation had never looked uglier. God damn Bradley and this cursed war.

The sound of an approaching jeep had her shaking her hands dry in a hurry.

"Khalid!" she called to her assistant. "Khalid, bring out some fresh iodine would you?"

"Ma'am!" the boy answered.

The doctor slipped on a fresh pair of gloves and took a deep breath. _Here we go_, she told herself.

The tent flap was flung inwards and a mass of shouting, panicking blue rushed inside. It took the doctor a few seconds to puzzle the scene out, but now she saw their cargo: a young man, writhing and bucking in their grasp. He was certainly energetic. A good sign at least.

"Okay, lads. What have we got here?" she asked. No one paid her much heed. She was about to try again when one of the men lost their grip and the wounded soldier dropped to the floor. He floundered like a banked fish, weeping and scratching at his eyes. The men continued shouting and grappling for him. She spotted his leg then: drenched with blood. _Okay, _ she thought.

She grabbed the arm of a largish corporal and spun him to her. "Get these men in order, soldier! I won't have chaos in my surgery!"

The corporal blinked at her. He had that sad, wild look to him. He didn't know where he was or what to do. He looked utterly absent from the moment – isolated by his panic. He was shoved from behind by one of his comrades and stumbled against her. He barely registered it at all. God damn this cursed war! God damn Bradley!

"Corporal!" she shouted, righting him. "Corp-"

"He's an alchemist," he whispered, scared. "Oh God... oh God..."

She understood at once. Alchemists were the _absolute_. One alchemist was worth the life of an entire battalion (proven not even a month before during the siege at Mui Ne). Here were four boys who'd just let one of the most expensive, indispensable pieces of Amestrian might get damaged.

She pushed past the corporal, and into the thronging men. "Khalid! Gunshot wounds to the leg, and- eye-damage? Eye-damage!" she shouted. Her assistant answered and started prepping a cot. "Hold him here, like this- like _this_," she said to another soldier. She checked his leg wounds: not bad, considering. "You take him to Marcoh?" she asked, pressing against the alchemist's shoulder to pin him to the floor.

A blond of maybe thirty nodded at her. He spoke like he was drowning. "He wasn't there. He's in the field somewhere. He wasn't there- they said-"

The doctor shook her head. "Never knows when to stay put." She swung a leg over the bucking alchemist and began prying his arms from his eyes. "Khalid! Fetch me the chloroform! And some saline solution. A cold towel too!"

"Ma'am!"

"You!" she pulled at the dumb corporal's arm. "You're big: sit on him."

Mercifully, the man did as he was told. That fairly limited the alchemist's movements. He was only a small thing.

She scooted round to the alchemist's head and once again pulled at his arms. The cuffs of his uniform were soaked through with tears. He was wearing one glove; the other was shoved in the pocket of one of his men. He moaned and mewled, his rubber boots scoring lines on the rough, hastily tiled floor. "What happened to his eyes?" she asked the blond.

He swallowed. "Fucking fire-extinguisher. Sorry, ma'am. Sorry... I-"

"I've heard worse. Man in the cot behind you calls me 'cock-sucker' every morning."

The blond private looked like he was going to throw up. Still struggling with the alchemist, she gestured as best she could for the man to get the hell on with it.

"Bullet struck the canister. It went off right in his face. Found a shard in his cheek. Fuck. He loses an eye and we're-"

"Alright," she consoled, just.

Finally, she got one arm away from the alchemist's face. She pinned it with her left leg. After that, the right wasn't too difficult. His eyes were scrunched kitten-tight and when the second glove came off, boy did he _scream_.

"Come on, soldier," she grunted as she popped his right arm under her right knee. "Who are you...?" she mumbled, reading his badge upside down. _Mustang. _That was the Flame lad from Central City. Shit- Colonel Grand would be on her in the morning, Marcoh at his side most likely.

"Major! Major Mustang!" she prompted, leaning close. Khalid arrived with the chloroform and some morphine for the alchemist's leg. "Major- stop-" He jolted fiercely, grazing her chin with his forehead. She grabbed his face with both hands: her thumbs to his eyebrows and fingers curling round his jaw. It was like a roaring gale had suddenly dropped. He stilled.

"Is he-?" one of the men stuttered, totally afraid (whether for himself or for the major was unclear.)

His eyes ghosted open: utterly blank. He was blind, temporarily at least. His whites were anything but. Yellow pus had formed at the tear duct and some hung in clumps on his lashes. Panting, his black _black_ eyes darted in tiny, frightened movements.

"She's a goddamn horse-whisperer," one of the men behind her said.

"Major, can you hear me?"

He swallowed with some trouble. Awkwardly, she manoeuvred his head onto her lap.

"Can you hear me, Mustang? (What's his first name?)"

"Roy, ma'am."

"Roy... Roy Mustang?"

Khalid handed her a wad reeking of chloroform. She nodded back at her assistant who moved off to rig the IV.

"Please-" he said in a voice deeper than she'd imagined, torn as it was.

"It's okay," she said. She smoothed one dark eyebrow with her thumb.

"Don't let them take my dick," he sobbed then, and in her whole life she had never heard the absurdity, cruelty or irony of war summed up better than in that one insane request.

She pressed the wad to his mouth. "Still there, champ," she said, and he was out.

God damn this cursed war.

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Thanks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes: **This remains a gift!fic for Antigone Rex whether she likes it or not.

Also, who the hell knows where I'm going with this anymore.

Onward!

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The room reeked. The sweet smell of desert bodies rushed into Roy's nostrils and he coughed messily. On the next breath, he choked again. He groaned through his hacking attempts at breathing. He felt like a drowning sailor who broke the surface only to be swamped by another ferocious wave. Death was unlikely (he didn't want to be dramatic about ti), but the discomfort; the absence of control was horrible.

"Shh," a voice comforted. Fingers accompanied it, strong and warm. They swept his face, bumped over the bandages covering his eyes and drew loops around his ringing ears. "You're safe, major. You're in the medical centre."

He tore his face free from her hands. "Some fucking _centre_. Smells like shit." His voice cracked and he realised he had squealed his complaint like an airless little piggy.

"We're just changing you, that's why. It must have woken you."

That made him stop. Changing him? God. He coughed again and hefted his hips when a thick hand (somebody else?) slapped his rump. Something damp slid between his thighs, bumped over yet more bandages and flicked over his bare heels. It's stench followed it; filled his nostrils with new discomfort.

There was something in the way she had said it, too: _we're just changing you, that's why._It reminded him of another low voice: kind but not entirely sincere: plain Riza Hawkeye watching his myriad embarrassments with even eyes. It was the tone people close to him used to remind him he was an idiot. Exclusively female.

He lay still, mulling over the female voice and what had put him before her. He remembered the attack suddenly, like fabric falling from an unveiled painting. His fingers shot to the bandage wound tightly around his head.

"My eyes," he gasped.

The strong fingers came again. They curled around his sweat-damp wrist and teased his hand away. "They'll be okay, major. They just need a little rest."

"The sodiu-"

"Your men brought you straight to me. We were able to treat them at once," she explained, utterly composed. A hand rested on his shoulder. There was humour in the way she squeezed his tense muscles. "You were shot too, you know? Twice."

He actually laughed at that. Perhaps a clearing of the throat more than a laugh, but there was some mirth at least. "Nothing new."

A thick silence filled the room beyond the bandages. He imagined the doctor biting her lip or playing with the quick of her thumb. The other person had left, he surmised. Maybe those thick hands were slapping other rumps now. Somewhere in the distance, a man was mumbling swear words and prayers: the sound of youthful war.

The bed depressed under her weight. He felt full hips press against his own. He felt like a child.

She spoke quietly. "Really? The scars... you look like a pin cushion. I'm surprised you haven't been medically discharged before now."

"Nothing so unusual for an alchemist," he mumbled. "You know a bullet wound doesn't mean the same to us."

She sighed. "Marcoh."

"Marcoh," he said, petulantly almost. He didn't mean to sound so glum. He wish she could see his eyes, to see how little he really cared. If you could forge a lie in your eyes, then you were home free: the truth couldn't touch you. He'd practiced it to an art. An alchemist had to learn to be thankful for the rough hands of the quiet doctor. "He'll be here any time now, and I'll most likely be back on the front tomorrow."

She laughed, entertained by him somehow. Her voice was so adult, her tone so lived-in. He despised it. She was clueless, yet she thought she knew so much. "You aren't ready."

"They will make me ready. A leg wound and some eye trouble? It's nothing to Marcoh. To you maybe, but to Marcoh... it's nothing."

"Marcoh might-"

"Please," he sneered, trying his best to sound knowledgeable and not haughty. "Please on't compare yourself to him, doctor. You will fall painfully short."

In the stretch of quiet that followed, he discerned no sense that she had been wounded by his words. In fact, he felt warmth. Her humour and understanding pressed against him as surely as her hip did.

"Major Mustang," she started. He wished she'd shut up and see to the others: the mumbling man, the snoring man, the other silent bodies filling the tent with their human stink. "If you want a rest, there are reasons to keep you here. Medical reasons... observations. Reasons Marcoh will have trouble objecting to. Perhaps this time you don't want to be saved by magic."

He shot up like a cobra. "It's not ma-" He realised too late that she was mocking him. Just like Miss Hawkeye: so immune to the glamour of his position and power. He could never be unfoolish in the face of such uncompromising pragmatism. "You remind me of somebody," he said. He found that he was smiling. He considered it might be the drugs, but the stinging pain in his thigh told him otherwise.

"She must be fabulous," said the doctor.

"How do you know it's a girl?" he returned.

He jumped as the doctor's fullness pressed against his shoulder. Her mouth was at his ear. "You said her name in your sleep."

He feigned playfulness but his stomach lurched. "Oh yes?"

The doctor whispered, "_Mummy._"

He blushed deeply, and deeper still when she stood and laughed. She slapped his cheek. "Get some rest, soldier blue."

His mouth turned down; followed his pride. "You're not the most conventional doctor," he observed.

"And a good thing too," she answered. Her voice was more serious now. He wondered at that until she spoke again. "Here comes Marcoh and Colonel Gran."

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Just a shorty this time to get me back on track.^^


	4. Chapter 4

**Just writing this as it comes folks. Hopefully, I'll be able to publish more regularly this way.**

**Gift fic for Antignoe Rex. (HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY NOW!)**

**Cheers.**

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There was a dull throbbing at the front of his head. It killed thoughts the moment they lit behind his blinded eyes. He had wanted to be articulate in front of Marcoh and especially in front of Colonel Gran. The man was hawkish, despite his size, and never missed a single tic or grunt. Words turned stupid on his tongue and he spat them at his commanders like a child ejecting spoilt gum. He loathed the beats of silence that followed each of his slow, stuttering sentences.

_The truck - jeep - it came off the r-road, but I don't know. Maybe the truck - _jeep! - _stayed on the track... the- the road _- _the whole time._

They told him not to worry. Gran even added an incongruous 'son' at the ends of his assurances. Mustang was glad he was blind. He would have hated seeing the caution that echoed so clearly in that booming voice. The thick hand that placed itself on his shoulder had felt impossibly heavy.

_Who'd I lose? Martens? De Burke? I think... I don't know. I'm sorry. I don't know._

Before he left, the doctor had taken Gran aside; whispered things to him that turned Mustang to a rigid, sweating board in the bed. His record! His name! What was she saying to the Colonel? What was she explaining away, or excusing? It wouldn't make any difference. Whether he lay on his back for one more hour or one more month, they'd still set him on every Ishballan until they were all gone. It was better to get things over with; get back on the front where he could _do_something instead of being trapped in the darkness with only Marcoh's quiet voice and his own squealing thoughts.

_I'm sorry. I'm tired. When I'm on my feet again, I'll draft a full report, sirs. I'll draft- a _full_, detailed report and have it to you by- by- anytime. Anytime you say._

How he despised himself: Major Mustang.

"Have you been watching him for infection?" asked Maroch of the doctor. By the pinging of steel equipment, Mustang knew she was on the other side of the room somewhere. He could picture her strong fingers arranging things as they should be.

Her voice came back easy as a Central Sunday. "Of course. He's been responding well to all of his treatments."

Mustang sighed to fill the thoughtful silence that followed. Marcoh's fingers tightened on the bed sheet, tugging them taught beneath his sweating back.

"Yet, you've advised myself and the Colonel that he needs extra bed rest."

Anger, just a hint. "He _does_need extra bed rest. He's pounds below regulation weight. If he tried to enroll tomorrow you wouldn't let him in."

Marcoh breathed heavily through his nose and patted the bed sheet. "We would."

They spoke at the same time; one sad, the other sneering. "Because he's an alchemist."

Mustang had the sense that even the soldiers lying deadened by their morphine felt the tension in the room. The alchemist. The paradoxical comrade. Hated and loved and envied and needed by all. He was only twenty-two but he had his own private quarters while men twice his age slept in mosquito-filled, yellow-pillowed dorms. He got paid more than anyone else his age. His dinner was brought to him daily by an enlisted soldier. Ranking officers stood back to let him pass, and on more occasions than he was comfortable with, he was asked to sign cigarette cards and letters to girlfriends back home. He never signed 'Roy Mustang'. Always 'Flame'. It was an asshole move to hide the bigger asshole away. Short of being blown to bits or shot in the head, he was invincible with Marcoh around. Even so, if they could they would have set him behind class when he wasn't engaged: a museum piece, a national treasure, wrapped in blue.

The clanking of steel ceased abruptly. Something slipped and clattered to the floor. It spun and spun, the terrible whirling noise filling every inch of the room. She spoke the moment it stopped. "I have to make a phone call at comms. I won't be long. Khalid is in the office."

The dry air stirred in front of Mustang as the doctor strode out of the tent. Somewhere along the cots, another man shifted, grunting noisily.

"Thank fuck for that," he said. "Crazy bitch."

Warm breath brushed Mustang's cheek as Marcoh leant closer. "Is it what you want?" he asked, quietly. "I'll listen to her, if this is what you want, son."

Mustang wished they'd all stop calling him son. "I don't know what you-"

"You know you can be on your feet again by tomorrow morning," said the Crystal Alchemist. He patted Mustang's arm. "You don't have to suffer here."

_If I'm not suffering here, I'm suffering out there. We're all suffering._"It's fine," said Mustang. "She's right. I'm losing focus... I could have avoided those losses; I'm sure of it. It's fine. Here. Wherever. It's... it's just..."

There was a sucking noise as Marcoh drew back, thinking. Beyond his bandaged eyes, Mustang knew the doctor was studying him; noting his flagging concentration, his fled confidence. Out of uniform, he was still the stupid little boy who played with fire.

"She's a good woman," the Crystal Alchemist said at last, then the mattress tilted downwards. Perhaps he had rested his elbows on it. He could have put his feet up for all the Flame Alchemist knew. "She's a good woman. But..."

The word hung in the air. _But fucking _what_? _Mustang wanted to choke the quiet doctor with his IV. Better Gran than a man who bled energy from the air like a dull-eyed vampire. With colossal effort, Mustang managed a, "But what?"

"She takes risks," finished Marcoh, barely audible.

Mustang laughed at that. He wanted to put the man straight; tell him it was a fucking war zone and everybody was taking risks. Eight-year-old kids with machetes were taking risks. The words didn't come. There was a familiar tug at the back of his throat.

Marcoh continued, unaware of how terribly Mustang had started to tremble. "The work that happens here..." The man's voice was so quiet, Mustang had to lean towards him. "It's the kind of work that gets people in trouble - killed even." There was a heavy stretch quiet, save the rustling and mumbling in the beds around them. Marcoh tapped the back of Mustang's hand. "Healing natives."

"They took an oath."

"I don't think the oath had Ishbal in mind." Marcoh's voice was so sad and kind, Mustang forgot about the IV fantasy and thought instead of choking him with his own hands. "You're a scholar-"

"I'm a soldier," Mustang clipped, drawing his hand from Marcoh's warm touch.

"A scientist," he pressed.

The room was quieter now. Mustang thought of all those bored men yearning for a some drama in the tent that wasn't another death. Hardly anything dramatic about _that_anymore. "Not quite."

"You are. An alchemist."

His arm shot out of its own accord and grasped the thick meat of Marcoh's arm. "An officer: just like you." _Get the message, Marcoh, you dolt. _He squeezed once and let go. He pulled his shaking hand close to his hollow chest. His throat pulled painfully. He was an officer. He was an officer. He was an officer.

"I see," said Marcoh. "I see." Again, the hand rested on his shoulder. "Yes, a rest. Good."

Insubordination threatened to overtake him again. He lay and shook, pushing his anger and the deep, shocking grief deeper within. "Yes," he whispered.

"Please be careful, son," said Marcoh. Soon, his warm breath was next to Mustang's ear again as he whispered. "If the brass know about it, then it must be happening. Maybe even in this area. The doctors are well intentioned, I'm sure, but - well - I can't do anything for slit throats."

He left without another word. Mustang rolled over in his bunk and bit the inside of his mouth until his throat was full of blood and the tears all chased away.

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**Thanks**


	5. Chapter 5

**Like I say... no idea.**

**Let's see where this goes.**

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After a week, the bandages came off. Not that their removal made any immediate difference to his sight. Now instead of reddish-black, Mustang's world was a whirling kaleidoscope of browns and greys; the occasional pink of a face or hand. Following the accident he was thrown into a nightmare, but now, after days of blindness, he'd come to enjoy his ignorant, helpless nest. He couldn't kill anyone if he didn't know where to point himself. He couldn't even use the bathroom alone. It was an unpleasant condition but fucking worth it. No slack-jawed, eternity-eyed troops following him like beaten dogs; no Gran watching his every move; no snap and rush of lit death; no thoughts of a dead mother watching her terrible boy from the heavens. The throbbing in his leg in accord with his heartbeat was like the pumping of bellows at a fire: breathing humanity back into his killer's husk, keeping him going for a little while longer. It was thanks to his doctor; the odd woman of strong fingers and rough, warm skin.

As the layers of gauze came away from his eyes, layer by layer, she was revealed to him. He laughed. He'd expected to see a wide smile and keen eyes; a show of strident kindness. He saw a pink blob and a light brown blob, all set in white. She'd said, "Tell me what you see." He'd answered, "The most beautiful woman in this tent." She'd slapped his arm and reminded him that his reputation for schmoozing preceded that of his lighting things on fire. He'd laughed at that too; but he hated her knowing about the Flame Alchemist and his unique, Fuhrer-serving power. Not for the first time, he wished he was just another sergeant so-and-so from Backwoods Nowhere, County Nothing.

He still wished it as he sat listening to her easy banter with the corporal in the cot next to him. The father of three was being discharged later that day with the wound every man dreamed of; the right kind of wound. In his case a badly fractured hip from an unexploded RPG. Lucky bastard. He'd be walking again in half a year and by then maybe the war would be over. By then maybe Mustang and Gran and Kimbley and all the other murderous bastards would be finished with Ishbal; wiping ashes from their hands like men done plowing.

"You look glum," came her voice from beside him.

"So do you," he returned, disinterested now that she had come to him. She spoke to him differently from the other troops. He couldn't quite place it. A kind of anxiety was as close as he could get. He didn't blame her. It was proof of sanity, probably, that he made people uncomfortable.

Her scrutiny showed itself in the silence that followed his words and the way her fingers curled around the metal bar of his cot. He gasped sharply, thinking she might toy-slap him, but she lifted her hand. It was a pinkish blur.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" she asked.

"Four," said the corporal in the bed behind her.

The white-pink doctor-blur spun in her seat. "That wasn't very nice, Keagel."

"Just trying to impress the officer, ma'am," he chuckled. It was an ambiguous noise. Mustang wanted to tell him to get fucked. He knew it was unreasonable, but still.

"If you can't see my-"

"Four," said Mustang.

"Three," said the doctor. She leant towards him, speaking quietly like a knowing school marm. "If you can't see my fingers, then how do you know I look glum?"

Mustang had said it as a joke; away to detract from his own foul mood. But now that he thought about it, she did seem out of sorts the last few days. He sighed and smiled, leaning his head back on the hard pillow. "Since you came back from that phone call the day that Marcoh visited. You've been like a deflated balloon. It's in your voice," he said. "And your terrible posture." He turned his head towards her, knowing he must look like a dopey asshole not being able to meet her eyes. "It ages you, by the way."

She sighed in return. "You could do with some aging yourself. I'm liable to send you to the pediatrics tent."

Mustang turned his hands palm-up. "No pediatrics tent round here."

"Oh no?" she asked, smiling.

"No kids," he laughed. "I killed 'em all."

Dead silence.

After a full ten seconds, one of the other patients whispered, "fuck."

Mustang bit his lip and stared forward. His palms were still open. At any second he expected the sting of a cane. He'd been a bad boy. He'd said something exceedingly naughty. Where was that school marm persona she did so well? He needed a dunce hat and a spell in the corner. Lines written in squeaky chalk on the board: I shalt not kill kids I shalt not kill kids I shalt not kill kids. He laughed at the thought. Maybe he did need to go to the made-up pediatrics tent. "I think I'll go to that-" He couldn't finish for laughing again. He wiped tears away with the back of his hand. He bit his lip harder. His chest constricted suddenly as if he was punched. All the air came out in a great whoosh! through his nose.

"Major," said the doctor.

Her hand found his arm. Her lovely fingers curled around his flesh. Each hair squealed under her touch. His throat constricted when he realised he might shit himself. His whole body tightened and his teeth ground together of their own accord. His chest shrank again.

She wet her lips. "Major, can you take a deep breath for me please?" she said. Her voice was lovely. Too lovely for him and too lovely for all the maggots in the cots around him.

"Fuck," he said in a growling whisper.

"Major, take that deep breath. Come on. These guys don't smell that bad. Come on, majo-"

"Can you call me Roy?" he gasped. The skin around his eyes had started spasming. His forehead creased and smoothed.

"Sure, Roy." She took his hand in her own and squeezed the chubby mound beneath his thumb. "Deep breath."

There was a chance he might come apart: a body without the force of the universe to keep it together. He'd live in the ether and never kill anyone again. He willed it.

"Big breath, kid."

He managed the breath. It swirled into his lungs: oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. Just like any other mammal. He was just like any other animal. See? He was breathing!

"Deep breath," she urged.

A darker blob emerged from behind her with what he took for a syringe: the soldier's oblivion. More drugs for our men at the front!

"I'm breathing. Yeah? See? I'm breathing," he said. The words shuddered like the light above a desert puddle. "Could be a puddle of anything," he said, but he didn't know why. "Anything at all."

She leaned right over him. She put her hands on either side of his face and nodded to the other blob. Something sharp slid into his arm. Her lips were so close to him he could have leaned up and kissed her. He wanted to. That's what boys his age did: Kill. He meant kiss, but the word 'kill' appeared like the hammer falls of a typewriter: K-I-L-L. Each clinking noise of each key was a rifle report. He wished he had a gun.

She was speaking. "-good boy. Mm?" she soothed. Her hands pressed his cheeks so tight he thought his broken eyes might pop out. "Just rest. You deserve some rest, Roy. You do. You're doing great."

"You don't need to lie to me," he slurred. "I can take it."

One of the men, laughed uncomfortably. "Fuck me. Fuck me."

"Go fuck him, would you?" Mustang asked of his doctor. Her pink and brown were fading to all grey. "Fucking bitch."

"Shh," she whispered. She stroked his hair. He liked it and felt sorry for his nasty words. "Shh, Roy."

He was out.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Gift fic for Antigone Rex. Why didn't I just do whimsy like she wanted. This story won't stop :(**

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"Stop it," said the doctor. The boy had a terrible habit of interfering. Not with what he said, necessarily. He was mostly silent while she worked on him. He had a way of speaking with his eyes; asking questions with a cynical turn of his lip. A sigh from the young major carried as much as a thesis from someone else. He was, in short, a very bothersome patient.

"I did nothing at all," he answered, dryly.

The doctor pulled on the long side of the catgut and watched its tail slide through his flesh, still black with bruising. "You're watching," she said.

"I can't do much watching with these peepers," said the major. The word 'peepers' stuck on his tongue like a melted sweet. She knew at once he was saying it for the benefit of them: the regular folk. "For all I know you're tattooing your name on my leg."

She laughed. He was funny, major Mustang, in his own way. It was a constant source of surprise to her. It didn't suit his face; his countenance. It was like getting a firm handshake from a two-year-old, or finding a medium-rare steak in your ration tin. "I'm saving that for when you're asleep."

They had bantered this way for the last week. Following his episode it was forced and understandably uncomfortable. It wasn't the first time she'd been called names in the desert, and it certainly wouldn't be the last time. But for the men... Seeing their ducked heads and large, plaintive eyes was impossibly sad. They couldn't see the science in their own meanness. They couldn't understand at a high fever was as much the boss of them as their commanding officer was. They constantly granted themselves an agency for malice they simply couldn't have. Particularly the major. The doe-eyed suffering suited him about as much as his joking did, which wasn't very much at all.

It was only two days ago that he'd finally whispered an apology. Then he'd whispered it again, squeezing her wrist tightly; ensuring the message got through. She'd slapped his cheek lightly and told him it was OK. It was all right. She fancied he'd nearly cried but it was hard to tell with the major. His clear eyes always looked as though they were on the brink of something.

"You have a lot of bruising," she said, plainly. She turned the stitch and pulled it back through. It was a near daily task, the restitching. What organisms the desert did support were tiny and on a one-track mission to finish off the human race. A man could get an infection from picking at a pimple and lose half of his face in the space of a week.

"I just see a black splotch in a beigy puddle," he murmured. He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. A hand lifted from his side, forefinger pointing.

"_Don't_," she scolded. "Touch."

"It looks puffy," he complained.

"Mm."

The others in the tent were chatting quietly if they weren't sleeping. They'd tired themselves out from a little sing-song that morning. Khalid had disappeared into the office to pack up supplies for the next shipment to the out-camp, complaining that the jovial atmosphere interrupted his work. There was a lot to do when the end of the month came. The call would come any day now with the pick-up arrangements, and soon after that she'd see her husband for the first time since-

"Ow!"

A hand clapped down on the back of hers.

Broken from her thoughts, she glanced at her work. "Oh," she said, stupidly. "Major, I am sorry." She'd pulled the thread too tight and puckered the skin on the bad side of the wound. It bulged out between the shining catgut painfully.

The major pouted and pulled his hand back to lie across his stomach. His near-blind eyes darted sideways, checking the reactions of the others. The doctor couldn't help herself and glanced around too. They hadn't even noticed.

"You," she cleared her throat, and frowned a little, seeing how quickly the sweat broke out across the smooth meat of his leg. "You have a lot of-"

"Bruising," said the alchemist.

"Right," said the doctor.

He laughed self-consciously and patted his stomach. His voice was low, intimate, when he spoke. "My we are jumpy. The two of us."

She finished off the stitching and pulled a roll of gauze from the small trolley next to her. She wanted to jostle back with him, but she found the words missing. His foot gave a nervous flick, something she'd noticed he did a lot.

"The bruising," he prompted. "It sounded like there was a 'but' floating on the end."

Tying the gauze off, the doctor sat up straight and looked at him squarely. He squinted at her and his freckled skin pulled up beside each eye, crinkling slightly. It made her wonder what he looked like in the cold of Central or wherever it was he came from.

"You don't miss much, do you major Mustang?"

"I sure don't," he said. It was said with the same awkward parlance as 'peepers'. Anything to seem less the alchemist, she imagined. He was unbothered and continued, smiling. "And your lips made a sort of bum shape like you were about to say a 'b' or an 'm' word. 'Bananas!' or 'Bravo, man!' or 'Major Mustang marry me!' Something like that."

She prodded his arm with one stiff finger, punctuating each word. "The wounds themselves are healing nicely."

He spread his arms out across his lower half; an exhibitor revealing his new collection. "Behold," he said. "The power of Amestrian medical personnel."

She thumped his good leg and tugged his loose cotton trousers up. She had to lean backwards as he tilted his hips upwards to allow her to slide them under his bottom. "Careful with that thing," she joked.

He sighed, light and happy, and dropped his head sideways to look at her. His fringe fell into his eyes, which shone a startling amber now that the sun was in them. They weren't so dark after all. "You are a most unusual person."

She crouched over him and pushed his fringe from his face. His breath warmed her palm. "I try my best," she said, then stood. "Get some rest, major."

The left side of his mouth turned up in the would-be smile of someone trying to hold it in. "Could you call me Roy?" he asked.

Bless the boy, she thought. So keen to be certain his dark episode was behind them. He wouldn't get much coddling from _this_ doctor. "The last time you asked me that you called me a bitch," she said sternly. She shrugged. "A fucking bitch."

The lightness flew from his face and he shrank where he lay. He swallowed and his foot gave his signature flick of discomfort. It took him just a moment to catch the jest in her words. He laughed noisily through his nose and swiped at her. When she easily scooted free, he just looked away and smiled, saying, "What a weirdo."

She turned from his bed, her hands on the low trolley, and spotted Khalid emerging from the office to meet a young soldier who stood sheepishly at the entrance.

"Phone call, ma'am," the skinny blond said, ignoring Khalid's approach. "From your husband. We're holding it, but if you could-"

Her stomach knotted at mention of her husband. Why, after months of taking these calls did mention of her husband light a panic in her breast. "I'll come now," she said, wheeling the trolley into Khalid's waiting hands.

As she left the tent, her back itched under the gaze of the young alchemist. She put a hand to her belly and calmed herself. It didn't matter. It was silly to think it did.

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	7. Chapter 7

**Notes: I don't own FMA.**

**This has not been beta'd and was written while simultaneously watching Seinfeld so apologies for any typos or madness. I'm just writing each chapter as it occurs to me so I'm not really sure where this is going!**

**Enjoy~**

Mustang smiled despite himself as he listened to the men beside him clip off story after story about their drunken escapades from their respective home towns. The private - a kid from a small town south of West City - spent his weekends getting drunk in graveyards and working his way around a group of girlfriends he called 'The Jennies'. He gave them their name on account of the supposed size of his penis.

"Like a mule, man," the private laughed. "Like a goddamn mule."

"Come on, Reiger," said another private, a city boy like Mustang. "Your dick is about as big as Archer's."

The men chorused laughter. One laughed so hard, he sent his poor damp lungs into a series of spasms and spent the next thirty seconds or so coughing.

Private Reiger shook off his laughter and leant up on one elbow, all earnestness now. "Hey," he whispered with excited conspiracy. "Archer has a small fucking dick, right?"

"You talking figuratively, Reigs? Man's a goddamn sneaky coward, that's for sure," said Temmel, a medic who may or may not have been dying as he spoke; all thanks to the major Archer in question. Temmel was the sole medic in Archer's command: a tough commission in itself. Archer was a cold bastard who had never really grown out of playing toy soldiers. He marched reluctant outfits on crazed, unsound missions and won the commiserations of his fellow officers when his people came back in bits. People said Temmel was the fastest medic in Ishbal at writing up a Certification of Death. He had lots of practice.

It was three months ago that the camp lit up with rumours that Archer's brother-in-law had joined his command as his aide. Still a boy, corporal Jools followed Archer around like his shadow and worried over his wife's older brother terribly. He would share his concerns with the other men in the company as they sat drinking under the freezing stars. All kinds of concerns. He worried that the major was making himself too busy. Archer was never in one place for too long, Jools said; always going somewhere, indexing arms or medical supplies, and never seeking assistance from the brass like he should. Hell, there were times when he didn't report back at all. It was like he was doing two people's jobs. It wasn't long until people were watching Archer from the corner of their eyes and it was shorter still before corporal Jools found his foot on the spicy side of a landmine.

Archer needed someone to get the kid's dog tags to ship home to his sister. Ever the economist, he thought it wise to kill two birds with one stone and have Temmel write Jools up as 'remains unsalvageable' at the same time as fetching the tin. Except Jools's remains weren't quite as unsalvageable as everyone thought. When Temmel reached the kid he was half a body squirming in the grit, guts spread about him like the ribbons from a maypole. Delirious with pain, corporal Jools shot Temmel six times in the trunk. One bullet popped open his appendix and it was that asshole wound that birthed the infection currently eating the unlucky medic alive. Frankly, Temmel could talk about Frank Archer's small dick all day and never get tired. "Sneaky son of a bitch," said Temmel, shaking his head.

Mustang spoke without looking at them. Instead, he kept his bleary eyes fixed on the rectangle of light where the tent flap was pulled back, waiting for a shadow to cross it; the doctor's. "Men," he said quietly. His voice sounded tired even to his own ears; weary with playing the reluctant commander. "Rein it in, yes?"

His request was met with thundering silence. It was always the way. The gulf between the major's position and youth was a trap many of the men fell into. Even Mustang himself was confused as to where lines should be drawn. He was young, green, pampered and more than a little awkward, but he was also the deadliest man dressed in blue; outstripping Kimbley and Grand's kill numbers by hundreds. People didn't know whether to slap him on the back, ruffle his hair or get down on their hands and knees and lick his boots.

Friendly banter inevitably turned towards the real truths at the core of the men's suffering; truths that Mustang understood all too well. But if another officer were to walk in and hear them speaking that way, and he a major allowing them to, they'd all be hauled in front of Grand or perhaps even the Fuhrer. There was little room for dissent in the military as it was, never mind in Ishbal where it was said that a crooked look could get you killed. One needed only to look at Archer's brother-in-law for an example of how easy it was to earn a black mark and a death sentence.

Mustang swallowed against a flowering panic in his chest. The sudden quiet of the men fell on him like a choking fog. He'd enjoyed their stories and - fuck - he wanted to talk shit about Frank Archer too. The man was a psychopath and exactly the kind of officer Mustang hated. But the men took it too far; took too big a risk. Anyone could have walked past and heard them! They should know better. Maybe he needed to be stronger all round; so strong and dry and tight that they'd think twice about saying anything in front of him. He was already as distant from the other soldiers as comrade could be. Why not make the final cut and floatinto the lofty detachment of the upper ranks where he belonged? Mustang cleared his throat and put a shaking hand to his chest. He continued to stare at the doorway with his half-seeing eyes full of healing pain. Where was his doctor? Where was her uncomplicated directness? Where was her uncaring and oblivious duty to him; her raw force of self? She was with her husband- saving lives and maybe having a quick fuck in the service ambulance. The major's right hand clenched over his heart. What kind of a man would drag a woman like her into the stinking heat of Ishbal?

"Sorry, sir," said one of the men. The others echoed him shyly. Mustang trembled at the thought of all their unsure glances and their rolling eyes.

He managed a weak smile. "It's okay," he said. "Just..."

Their awkward silence swallowed up his words the second they left his mouth. He couldn't go on. He cleared his throat again, tugged at his bed sheet and blinked hard once or twice.

"Sir?" asked Reiger. "Sorry, sir. Didn't think. Didn't realise you and Archer were close, if you know what I mean."

We're not, Mustang wanted to say, but that wouldn't have been befitting of his rank so instead he just nodded. _Please understand_, his conscience coaxed him. The Roy Mustang of Mercat Street, Central City prompted him to appeal to these boys lined up in the beds beside him. _We're not so different_. But they were. Even before he donned his gloves and snapped death into being like a blooming rose he was different from the soldiers. He was always apart or ahead, separate from the other bodies who tumbled through life around him.

The room darkened with the approach of someone at the door. The doctor strode in and unhooked the curtain behind her with a few sharp tugs.

"Doc," a few of the men greeted her. She waved at them civilly before dumping most of her things on the low table by the entrance. Mustang followed her movements with curiosity.

"Khalid!" she called.

The assistant came out from the side office and rushed to her side to take the one or two folders tucked under her arm. "The returns," she muttered to him. "Lay them aside for now. We need to get caught up with this lot first."

Any heaviness that had taken root in Mustang's heart dissipated with his doctor's arrival. He felt giddy almost. He forgot about the other men in the tent, suddenly drunk on the promise of fresh banter with the woman. He tried his best to focus his stinging eyes on her as she slipped out of her cloak and made her way to hang it by the door. "Well," he said lightly in his sing-song baritone. "I'm glad you decided to come back. I was worried you'd had enough and abandoned us all for Amestris."

The doctor snagged her cloak on the peg roughly and spun towards him, finger pointed. "You may be an officer major Mustang and an alchemist too- but I have no time for your antics today. Kindly try to remember I'm your doctor and not your bloody mother."

With that said she strode past Khalid and towards corporal Hersher at the end of the row. "Sit up," she clipped. Hersher did as he was told without comment.

In fact, nobody commented at all. The silence bled back into the room, Mustang once again its sorry sponsor. Every muscle in his beaten body shrank with juvenile shame. His cheeks burned and palms grew clammy. _Antics_, she had said. He closed his eyes and turned his face away from the others. What a silly boy he was to presume friendship in a place like this.

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	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I don't own this.**

**This is a gift!fic for Antigone Rex (though I forgot that til I looked at an earlier chapter). Whimsy. Very whimsy.**

**I hope my 4 readers enjoy.**

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Tuesday mornings in Medi-cb 85 were always busy. Fresh supplies were brought up from Group and had to be inventoried. The doctor and Khalid then had to sign-off reports on every patient currently in their charge and register any new patients or deaths within the small desert medical tent. Sometimes they returned men to the front. Sometimes to rehabilitation or home. (Though the latter happened less and less often these days. The doctor was told she was only allowed to write three men off each month and no more. Her patients were either dead, dying or preparing to return to theatre, no matter what she had to say about their condition.) Her husband's call to rendezvous (for that's all they had now: rendezvous... business meetings) had upset all of the paperwork she and Khalid had arranged before the weekend. With over half their new supplies now gone further east with Urey, she and Khalid had to re-write every report and inventory to justify the massive loss. They also had to prepare Martinez and Delacoux who were going back to the front and home to Dokksom Province respectively. She had hoped to get Temmel out this time but was denied. "He might come around," she had been told by Group Medi-cb. She doubted it. The infection was about as stubborn as her superiors.

There had been more on her mind that morning than diddling papers for extra gauze and rubbing alcohol. She had fought with Urey again on Sunday night. It was bigger than she could have possibly expected- the biggest fight they'd ever had. It was a night of firsts for them. She was wilder and he cooler than she had ever known him. They had never fought in front of others before. He had never told her to 'calm down' before. They had never brought their child into their arguing before. She had never wept over him before. Never. But she did. It was a hot nasty affair that made her feel as distant from herself as Rizembool was from Ishbal. And he was so _cool_ the whole time. The way he looked at her with kingly patience and a kind of alien aloofness still sent shivers racing down her spine. She supposed his newest project had given him a perspective she couldn't possibly achieve. What were her daily duties compared to his work, dealing with the mad hangovers of hellish, blind alchemy? He plucked the survivors from the worst kinds of sins: 'Enemy' combatants skewered together like festive kebabs; cowering families crushed beneath tossed buildings, a line of corpses like burnt matches; a child melted down to their blackened bones, fat pooling around them like a shadow.

Seeing these horrors drove her husband from her. She was sure of it. Drove the humanity from him and lit a single burning want in him: heal. She wondered if it was the same for the same young alchemist in her care. What was left behind in his heart after seeing- doing so much? Not 'heal', certainly. Perhaps, 'die' or 'disappear'. Was there 'repent' there? 'Suffer'? What desperation did she read in his shadowed eyes?

God. What were they all doing?

She leaned against the steel countertop in her small office and dropped her head back to rest on a cupboard. She tried to recall where in the week she was. Meeting Urey always threw her off, and then to have the delivery from Group come straight on its heels. She hadn't slept at all since Sunday afternoon. How long was that? Forty eight hours and counting.

"The major is awake, doctor," said Khalid. He hung at the door watching her carefully. "I can see to him if you like. He was in some discomfort this morning though, perhaps you should-"

"Yes, yes, yes," said the doctor, waving her hand before bringing it up to pinch the bridge of her nose lightly. "Just," she breathed deeply and blinked a few times to clear her head. "Give me a few minutes."

"Ma'am," said Khalid. He left quietly, closing the curtain behind him.

The doctor bit the quick of her thumb and tried to fight the quickening of her heart.

"Please turn on your side, major," the doctor said plainly. He did so, the muscles in his shoulders bunching with the effort. "That's it, and pop your knee up like this," she instructed, guiding his leg up so that his knee was bent and his foot was flat against the rough paper sheet.

Khalid said he had been groaning in his sleep that morning and had been running a slight fever. Perhaps his leg was giving him trouble, perhaps something else. "Any pain when I press here?"

"No."

The doctor raised her eyes to look at the back of her patient's head. Mustang was still and primed. He seemed to be holding his breath. The other men behind her were quiet; most of them sleeping after all the fuss of the morning.

"How about here?" she pressed again at the purple, swollen flesh near the stitches.

A beat, then, "No."

She sighed, exasperated. He flinched.

"Major, is something the matter?" she asked, knowing full well that her harsh words had stung him terribly. How could she not? His face was not as shuttered as he believed.

"There's the gunshot wound," he said laconically.

She scolded, "Major."

He spoke rapidly in a harsh whisper. "As you say, this is a professional relationship and I've already compromised myself enough, doctor. I apologise."

The doctor waited a beat and was about to speak when he half turned to her and asked curtly, "Have you finished your examination, doctor?"

She pinched her lips between two fingers and narrowed her eyes at the wound. It looked sound enough, though the major's temperature was worrisome. She teased it again, ignoring his petulant sigh. At last, she hoisted up his linen trousers and gave his leg a conclusive slap. "Yes, major," she said. "I am. We'll up your dosage a little just in case but it all looks fine to me." She stood. "I'll be back in the afternoon."

She was already walking away when she realised he was speaking to her again. He still refused to look squarely at her as he spoke.

"I fear you may have seen something on your recent trip that has opened your eyes to the full extent of my," he searched for the right word and found entirely the wrong one, "Capabilities."

She turned fully towards him but still had to strain to hear his low, sombre voice.

"I," he paused. The whole room was silent, the others asleep or pretending to be. "I understand if any oaths you took as a doctor are... if they lapse... I understand that professional and moral duty aren't always the same. Whatever credo you believe in will allow for some negligence, I'm sure." He turned slowly and looked at her now. His eyes looked much clearer than they had before she left on Sunday. He was getting better. He took a breath to speak but she stopped him with her raised hand.

"What are you saying? Are you absolving me, Mustang? Are you suggesting that I don't have your best interests in mind presently?"

He sat up and leaned towards her. His eyes were hungry and his lips pale. "I'm suggesting you consider it, doctor."

She left without another word.

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	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I don't own.**

**Protracted gift!fic for Antigone Rex meandering along. **

**Enjoy.**

* * *

He was a quiet country graveyard. Save the crows in the trees and the worms in the turf beneath his feet he was alone. The sky was a grey so deep it was almost purple. Black branches spat into it like so many reaching fingers. The graveyard smelled of recent rain and more rain still to come. It was a sombre day and his soul was heavy.

In front of him was a simple headstone, barely adorned at all- only two carved lilies, one in each upper corner. The name read: Hawkeye.

He sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets. The surrounding trees whistled with a brisk, sudden wind. He felt tired beyond any tiredness he had ever felt before; like he was liable to come apart at any moment and be blown away. The soft, dark earth of the plot looked so inviting. Perhaps he could lie down awhile. Perhaps the dirt of the graveyard would accept him as one of its own.

"Riza," he said quietly, toeing the grave's granite border.

"Roy. Roy Mustang."

For a dizzying moment, he thought it was her voice but when it spoke again he realised his error.

"Who was she?" asked the voice of him. "A lover?"

He shook his head and smiled sadly.

"A friend? Cousin? Neighbour?"

He shrugged and dropped his head back. "Riza is just Riza," he said to the sky.

The sky had a face as big as the sun. Roy jolted and stumbled back from the grave. The sky spoke. The face. The _doctor_.

And like that, he was snatched from the graveyard: awake.

"What?!" he whispered harshly, his heart hammering in his chest- a rude contrast to the dark peace of his imagined graveyard. "What are you –?"

"I'm sorry," said the doctor, but there was a smile somewhere on her lips. "You were talking in your sleep." She paused, allowing him a bothered sigh. "And moaning."

He froze where he lay, now conscious of the sweat-damp sheets clinging to his middle and wrapped around his feet like a confused shroud. "No, I wasn't," he said quickly.

"'Riza is Riza' you said," the doctor supplied, quirking a matronly eyebrow. "Whoever 'Riza' is. You talk about her a great deal when you're sleeping." Her light eyes became clouded in the blue haze of the desert night. "Is she passed, major? It seemed you were praying to her almost."

Mustang stared open-mouthed at his doctor, only vaguely recognising he was able to 'stare' at all. His eyes were healing swiftly now. He swallowed and looked around the silent tent. "You're very pushy."

"You're very stubborn," returned the doctor. She tilted her head and smiled. "Like a little donkey."

The major's jaw dropped open another half inch. He growled and half-turned from her. "You could have just let me be," he said, grumpily and tugged the sheets roughly up to his chest. When he looked back, the doctor was staring at him, deadly serious.

"No," she said. "I couldn't. About yesterday: your request."

"About yesterday – "

She silenced him with a raised hand. "Will you shut up?" she asked at full volume.

Both patient and doctor held their breath and waited to see if any of the other men would stir. After a few tense seconds, the doctor waved her hand dismissively. "They're all high as kites anyway."

Mustang frowned. "Unconventional as always, doctor."

She brought her face close to his. "Yes," she whispered, briskly. "And you're about to thank me for it."

"What are you talking about?"

The doctor sank back on her heels and shrugged. "You've been lying in that bed every day, growing more miserable and _depressing_ by the hour." With one smooth gesture, she flung his bed sheet back. It alighted and floated away from him like the sail of a departing ship. "I have a little surprise for you. Or a gesture of peace. I suppose it depends what mood you're in."

"You're bloody nuts," he spat.

"Come on!" laughed the doctor. "Up with you!"

The major was horrified and shrank from her bright, grinning face as though it were an exploding star. "I can't walk! I've been shot in the leg, in case you've forgotten."

The doctor chuckled and tugged something towards her with one foot: a wheelchair. She winked. "I'm an excellent driver."

"I hope so," muttered Mustang as he sat up and drew his legs over the edge of the bed. "Because you're a rotten doctor

OoO

The doctor was stronger than her slight frame implied. Within minutes the small medical tent was shrinking behind the pair as she pushed the broad-wheeled chair over the soft, difficult sand. The night was freezing cold – as cold as Central in winter – but she'd taken care of that with a heavy desert cloak for herself and a thick blanket for Mustang. She'd even tucked his feet in and laughed at his youthful indignation.

They hadn't spoken since leaving the medical centre grounds. Mustang wondered if she was as wowed by the impressive spray of stars as he was. He'd been in Ishbal for months but the sky had never looked as awesome as it did then. It made alchemy turn to petty children's puzzles in his mind. What foreign magnificence it was! He'd never seen anything like it. And if it was enough to keep the doctor quiet then it must have been as wonderful as he imagined. He pulled in a deep breath of stinging cold air and rested the back of his head against the cushion.

The doctor flicked his temple. "No sleeping."

"What does it matter to you if I sleep or not," replied the major, dreamily. He laughed and brought his hands up behind his head. "If it was up to me I'd have a beautiful young woman push me around for the rest of my life."

"I'm not young, major," said the doctor.

They hit a dense mound of sand and the wheelchair stopped suddenly, almost throwing Mustang free. He caught himself in time and spun in his seat to look up at her. Again, she fixed him with her eyes so full of humour and, now that he could better see, a kind of sadness. A deep, old sadness. What he had taken for cool cynicism all this time had been so much more sophisticated.

"I'm not young at all."

Like most men his age, when faced with a woman speaking truths to him he balked. "You are," he argued, weakly.

She shrugged, smiling ironically. "I'm not." She rattled the handles of the wheelchair awkwardly. "I'm a mother, you know."

"Oh," said Mustang, stupidly. She misunderstood.

"Please!" she cried. "You know I'm married!"

The major bit his lip and looked up into the broad wash of navy all dressed with silver. "It's not that," he said slowly. "Just… you must be mad coming here when you have children."

"A child. A girl."

"Well," he said, opening his hands to her. _What's the difference between one and a hundred children when it comes to parents murdered in the desert? _"If anything were to happen to you…"

The doctor hummed to herself and jiggled her head from side to side, accepting the wisdom of his words. She leant hard on the handles and tilted the wheelchair back to free it from the sand. Mustang's mess of black hair fanned against her belly. He looked up at her with his eyes wide and bright.

She shook the chair. "What about you? What if something should happen to you? What about- what's her name- Riza?"

"Why I- I don't have any children," argued Mustang. "And besides, I'm a soldier. I am bound only to Amestris. Not to a little girl left waiting for me in petticoats."

"'I am bound only to Amestris'" mocked the doctor. "You sound like one of those bloody radio dramas."

Mustang pouted and folded his arms. He shifted his weight forward in the seat so that the handles slipped from the doctor's grasp. The chair barely made a sound as it struck the sand and rolled back. Anger swelled in him and he felt control begin to unravel in his mind. She was being so flippant! He stayed himself with a deep breath. "If you _knew_ what it was you were risking. To orphan a child…"

The doctor's voice was almost a whisper. "Perhaps this is your problem more than it is mine, Mustang."

"Perhaps," the major replied, glancing away. When his eyes found hers again, they were hard. "And since we're speculating, perhaps your sense of duty towards your husband surpasses even that towards your very own child."

He had said it to wound her- make her angry. But he should have known people like her were wise to his flashes of viciousness. She began pushing him again, slowly now and with greater labour. "Yes," she said. "I am here for my husband. I would have left months ago. I'm sure you won't believe me, but I miss my girl terribly. She's the loveliest thing that's ever happened to us… but Urey… he…"

Only the sound of the wide tires whispering through the sand could be heard around them. The lights of the medical zone were like bugs in the distance.

"Doctor," prompted Mustang.

"He is so very, very noble, you see," she said, at last. "And there is no cure for that. Not even a child, it seems." She stopped a moment. Mustang stared straight ahead and dared not turn his head even an inch until she started pushing again. The chair lurched forward then continued bumpily. "I know very well the perils we face here, major, but you see… with a man like Urey…"

She stopped again and placed her hands on his shoulders. He waited, scared that he might soon start trembling.

"It's like an orbit from which I can't hope to escape."

Mustang shook his head, a little angry still- sad too. "I don't understand," he said.

"No," said the doctor. "I don't suppose you would."

Words failed them both and the desert was silent for miles around them. Only the occasional crack of rifle-fire echoed back to them from miles and miles away. Mustang took a deep breath and reached back, placing his right hand over his doctor's.

"Let's go back," he said. Then to save her, for she was proud, added, "I'm tired."

She slipped her hand from his and laid it on top, her palm warm. "No," she said. When he started at her abruptness, she laughed. "I told you I had a surprise for you, didn't I?"

"This was enough," Mustang insisted. He looked up at her. "It was marvellous. It was."

"So if I said that just over the crest of that hill was an abandoned outpost with working electricity, you'd be quite happy to turn back?"

The major's eyes widened and he looked towards the hill. A smile opened up on his face like the blooming of a rare flower. "You're having me on," he whispered.

"And booze…"

His brows furrowed. "Is that advisable?" he asked, suspicious.

"Doctor's orders," said the doctor. She held his narrowed gaze like a snake charmer.

Eventually, his smile unfurled itself once more. "Well… you _are_ the professional."

The doctor kicked the bottom of the chair to free it once more. "There's a good boy," she said, and continued to push.

* * *

**Thanks**


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